Commonplace Crime
by Capt-Facepalm
Summary: The year is 1881 and Sherlock Holmes wants to demonstrate deductive reasoning to his protégé. And when one goes looking for trouble in the streets of Whitechapel, one is likely to find it. Now complete. This chapter concludes the case.
1. Beginnings

Autumn in London is usually the most genial of seasons, but in the year 1881, atypical cold and damp weather arrived early and winter's chill could be felt towards the end of October. It was on such a night that Mr Sherlock Holmes, the up-and-coming amateur detective, chose once again to demonstrate his analytical methods to his flatmate, Dr John Watson, an invalided veteran from the recent Afghan campaigns.

For some time it had been the detective's intent to rekindle Watson's early fascination in his cases. For the doctor's own part, his burgeoning interest was all but doused when his inconsistent health precluded his participation in active investigations. Much against his will, he had been relegated to the position of bystander, and this left him deeply disheartened.

Indeed, the year had been one of frustration for the two gentlemen residing at 221B Baker Street. In July, Watson had failed to convince the Army Medical Board of his suitability to resume his commission. His health had not sufficiently mended by the time of his review, nor was it reasonable to expect it would do so in the future. Holmes had hoped that the repatriation of the doctor's old regiment would lift his spirits, when in fact, the opposite turned out to be the case.

As it turned out, Holmes had neither the inclination nor the time to dwell on his friend's difficulties when his own fortunes took a downturn. He had taken an interest in a sordid affair which monopolised his energies and talents for most of the summer, concluding with the untimely death of his client and no payment for all his efforts. Only after two months of miserly existence and accepting cases out of necessity rather than interest, was he again confident in his financial situation.

On this particular night, Holmes had contracted the services of Sid and Barney, and their carriage for hire. (The former being the driver, the latter, the horse.) Earlier in his career, Holmes had helped Sid out of a delicate situation and Sid, in gratitude, placed his services at Holmes' disposal. The carriage was a compact variety of two-axled growler. Strictly speaking, it was more vehicle than Holmes required, but the four-wheeler provided a smoother ride than any hansom and it was completely enclosed against the elements; both were important concerns on a night like this which threatened rain at any moment.

Whitechapel was one of London's poorest districts. Destitution and desperation combined to make it a dangerous place, especially after dark. Each morning brought news of some crime being committed in the backstreets and alleyways. Violence was a way of life for poor who were accustomed to the bleakness of their surroundings. It was precisely for that reason that Holmes dragged Watson out of their comfort of their Baker Street flat late that night. He was hoping for a chance to demonstrate his deductive methods, and he was certain he would find such an opportunity here.

Midnight found the carriage easing its way east along Whitechapel High Street, when Sid drew it to a halt. Holmes opened the door to see why they had stopped.

'Doctor, Sid has found something promising. Follow me!'

Holmes led Watson to where a Police maria was stationed. A hard-faced constable stood by the horses.

'It's Inspector Gregson's luck of the draw tonight, Mr Holmes. Someone reported a stiff in the mews. It's a right warren back there. You can enter through yon gate but you'll need your lantern. Watch yourselves in them alleys. The local citizens are just as like to drop a rock or a brick on a fellow's head just for sport. I'll not be moving far from the streetlamps of High Street if I can help it.'

The constable had been correct. Negotiating the labyrinthine path without a lantern would have been impossible. The stench of squalor was particularly strong. Watson did not want to stop for a closer look at what the rats were eating. The narrow alley opened onto the mews. A light fog further reduced the illumination from meagre gas lamp situated on the back of one of the establishments. In the distance, two other globes of diminished light could be seen as well. Under the second faint pool of light, cast by lamp behind The Stag, a small crowd had gathered. Holmes led Watson closer. A man's body lay amongst the rubbish, his identity concealed by the bloodied cloth covering the remains of his head.

Inspector Gregson is investigating a brutal murder.

'Well, Doctor,' Holmes smiled. 'This should prove to be most instructive.'


	2. Whitechapel

Inspector Tobias Gregson was a large man and used his size and his bluster to his advantage. Although brawn served him well, it was rather upon his intellect and his solid record of solved cases that he made his reputation. His men jumped at his commands, eager to do his bidding.

'I'm in charge here!' Inspector Gregson bellowed, 'Constable, move this rabble back. Official personnel only!'

'Inspector, does that include Mr Holmes?'

'Sherlock Holmes? Is he here? This is my investigation and I do not need his interference! Remove him at once!'

Young Constable Deakons advanced on the line of spectators at the fringe of the grisly scene.

'I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but you heard the Inspector: official police only.'

'Thank you Constable. I heard, as did half of Whitechapel. I think I shall wait here in case he has a change of heart.'

PC Deakons gave a furtive glance over at the Inspector then shook his head.

'As you wish, Sir, but I doubt... which is to say, it's a cold night to be standing around, and it feels like rain...'

Holmes shrugged off these concerns and moved a little closer. 'Deakons, your Inspector may yet see reason, but if not, it would not be amiss to examine the victim's boots now, especially with rain on the way.'

'I will. Thank you, Mr Holmes!' he whispered before returning to aid his Inspector.

Sherlock Holmes used the opportunity to edge closer still, trying to make what observations he could and being frustrated by the dimness of the light. The mews itself was wide enough but the walls were lined with old crates and rubbish; a virtual midden from the adjacent public house. It was impassable by horse and carriage, he concluded. Several alleys, perhaps as many as four lead out to main thoroughfares. The inspector was not having them searched, but instead he was concentrating his forces on the victim's body and crowd control. Holmes snarled in dismay as Gregson ordered some of the rubbish cleared away. Disgusted by the destruction of potential evidence, he turned back in frustration, searching the crowd for someone.

Standing among the second row of onlookers, leaning heavily on his cane and using his free hand to clutch his coat collar against the cold, Dr Watson was perhaps the only crowd member not eager to gawk at the gruesome spectacle. Seeing Holmes' disgruntled expression, he made his way to the consulting detective's side. Although he said nothing aloud, his features expressed his unease.

'Bumbling, bungling oafs!' Holmes exclaimed. 'At this rate they will destroy the very evidence they require to catch their man! Keep your eye on the Inspector, will you? I need to examine that alleyway.'

'Very well, but why that one?'

'Can you not deduce it for yourself?' his voice was tinged with exasperation.

Watson considered the situation, seeking the explanation Holmes hoped he would find, but once again he failed to keep up with the mental gymnastics of Holmes' agile mind.

'Sorry Holmes, I'm not in top form tonight. I fail to follow your line of thinking.'

Holmes huffed an irritated sigh and then re-examined his colleague.

'Forgive me, Watson. You are tired and this damp is doing you no favours. It is sheer loutishness on my behalf to take out my frustrations on you. The alley in question is the only one which has direct lines of sight to where the body now lies. If any witnesses are to be found, that alley is the most likely place.'

Looking high and low, Dr Watson briefly examined the mews again.

'The rooftops are too steep, but perhaps one of the windows...?'

'Excellent reasoning, and fully in line with your military training! The high ground offers strategic advantages but surely the police investigation would keep any curious witnesses engaged, yet all the windows are dark and vacant. No, Doctor, it's the alleyways or nothing! Watch Gregson. Warn me if he heads my way.'

With those instructions, Holmes darted over to the nearest constable, exchanged a few words, and then slipped away into the night, leaving the doctor to wonder exactly how he was supposed to send a warning. Watson kept his distance and watched Gregson and the others examine the body. Perhaps he would be able to observe something that Holmes might find useful. Eventually, the police met an impasse.

'Does anyone know what's keeping the Police Surgeon?' Gregson bellowed to his men, but none could provide him an explanation. 'Damn that man! It's starting to rain. All the evidence will be washed away! Constable Rhoads, bring the canvas! We'll have to keep the immediate area dry until Dr Langer graces us with his presence.'

Constable Deakons approached his Inspector with a suggestion. Gregson pivoted and glared at Watson.

'Absolutely not!' he roared as he closed his distance with the doctor, 'Neither Sherlock Holmes nor this man have any place on my investigation. Do I make myself clear?'

'Inspector, I do not mean to...,' Watson began, the inspector's incensed presence forcing him to take a step back.

'Mr Watson, one word out of you and I will have you arrested for interfering! I don't put up with Sherlock Holmes and I'll be damned if I put up with his lackeys! Now get out of my sight! Begone!'

'I cannot leave without Mr Holmes. He is has a carriage.'

'That interfering busybody is your problem; not mine. I suggest you start walking.'

Watson cast a brief, involuntary glance down at his cane.

'Can't walk, eh?' Gregson sneered. 'Well, they claim you were something of a soldier… so _march! _Or_ crawl!_ I don't care just as long as you leave!'

Watson felt his ears flush with embarrassment as he turned on his heel and made his way through the dwindling crowd. At least the increasing rainfall discouraged all but the most enthralled. Everyone had heard the Inspector's bellicose remarks. While some of the idlers were appalled, a few took Gregson's dismissal as licence to add jeers of their own. Someone stuck out a foot in an attempt to trip him. An unexpected nudge nearly cost him his balance. Watson's angry countenance hid his racing heart, but the onlookers quickly lost interest when an argument flared up between the inspector and two of his constables.

'You shouldn't 'ave sent 'im away. What if Langer never shows up?'

'Constable Staker, one more word out of you and you're finished. I will not have my orders questioned!'

There was a well-shadowed spot, well away from Gregson's toils, which still held a view of the alleyway egress. Watson retreated there and stood in melancholy contemplation of civilians' morbid fascination. Some poor bloke lay dead and his misfortune was being used as evening entertainment for those barely scratching a living of their own. Watson leaned back against the wall, which provided little relief against the now steady downpour, but kept him well out of the circles of light cast by the policemen's lanterns.

Watson shivered as he stood watching the alleyway for Holmes' return. There was no way to estimate how long Holmes might take. If the detective found nothing, he might remain longer and intensify his search. If he found something, he might be off like a bloodhound and be gone for hours. Watson could no longer stop his teeth from chattering. He opened his pocket-watch but it was too dark to see the time. Striking a match would be futile. His were now soaked through, along with the rest of the contents of his pockets.


	3. Holmes Investigates

Holmes moved through the alley focusing his lantern's beam in a methodical sweep. A few startled rats scurried into deeper shadows among the detritus. The rain was falling harder now and the constricted alley did not protect the detective from the downpour. This was not turning out the way he had hoped. He wanted Watson by his side to learn how to read evidence on the ground; instead, the doctor had to waste his valuable time keeping ignorant inspectors from interrupting his investigation. This would have been an excellent opportunity, he acknowledged when he spotted the vestiges of recent footprints. Allowing a brief smile of self-vindication, Holmes resumed his examination of the tracks. This work needed to be done quickly, before the rain rendered them unusable. Fortunately, he was very good at this.

There were two sets of footprints; a man's and a young woman's. They had entered together from the High Street. Having no light, they stumbled a little in the darkened alleyway and stopped near an alcove formed by a bricked-in doorway. There, scattered about, Holmes found some coins, a comb, and a woman's handkerchief, soiled first with traces indicating an amorous encounter, and then with grime from the ground. The man's footprints returned to the High Street on the run. The woman's were lost to the rain.

Holmes puzzled these observations in his mind, collected the scattered evidence, then drew his conclusions and planned his next action: _Cherchez la femme!_

.oOOo.

Watson could not grip his coat any tighter. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other despite the pain it caused. If he did not move around a little more, he risked having his muscles seize and cramp. While the doctor waited in the shadows, Gregson swore many foul oaths and sent another man to search for the still absent police surgeon.

Most of the crowd's curiosity had dissolved when the rain became a deluge. Only a dedicated handful remained. Watson turned when the smallest of sounds reached his ear. Not far from his vantage point he could discern the outline of a young woman. She clung to a slim recess in the wall. He moved closer. By the dim light he could barely make out her pale features, her cheap face paint running down her face. Her wide-eyed stare, spellbound with horror, stood out despite the dim and fleeting light.

'Miss? Miss, are you unwell?'

The young lady might be a simpleton or a deaf-mute for her lack of acknowledgment. She continued to stare toward the canvas covered corpse. People's reaction to death varied. Watson had seen this effect many times in war, but never before in London.

'Miss, please come away. This is no place for you!' the doctor implored, offering his hand which went ignored.

More commotion from Gregson caught Watson's attention. Holmes had returned and was once again facing the Inspector's ire. Since the young lady showed no signs of moving on her own, Watson left her to rejoin his flatmate.

.oOOo.

Holmes' entreaties were again rebuked and he gesticulated in frustration before stomping off in defeat. Gregson bellowed threats to his back as he joined Dr Watson at the sidelines.

'Must you continue to antagonise the Inspector? His case is ruined. The police surgeon still has not appeared. His men are cold, wet and miserable...'

'Truly? Dr Langer failed to show up? How wonderfully fortuitous! Watson, you must volunteer your services! There may still be a chance to find evidence on the body...'

'No, Holmes! Gregson won't have it. As far as he's concerned, we are both _personae non gratae_around here. He made his thoughts on this subject abundantly clear, and I'm no longer sure that I would be willing to assist him anyhow.'

'Pride, my good man, is the worst of the deadly sins!'

Watson glared at the detective as he wiped away the rain dripping from the end of his nose with the sodden coat sleeve.

'Very well. We may have enough to solve this without the body. I was right. There were two people in the alleyway: a man and a woman. We are looking for a young woman; specifically a prostitute... but young, and inexperienced... perhaps new to London. Having no other suitable place of her own, she plies her trade in the streets and alleyways and was with a customer when something disturbed their commerce. The signs were clear...'

'What signs?'

'Really, Doctor, are you such a _naïf?'_

'No, but I don't... Oh. Oh!' The doctor's blush was obscured by the darkness. 'Wait, what about the man, her client?'

'I can deduce little about him, other than he's a dockworker, red-headed, short and stocky, likes cheap gin, and does not live in this area. His footsteps clearly indicate he fled the other way to the main street in a state of panic. Chivalry is dead, my friend, he abandoned her in quite a state. She failed to gather up all of her belongings, including her fee. I lost her trail to the rain, but we may be able to trace her by this handkerchief.'

'Surely the man would have been of equal interest? In fact, wouldn't his flight prove him a better witness?'

'Not if you think about it.'

'I'm soaked to the skin and not in the mood for your riddles…'

'You will never develop your skills if I have to give you all the answers. Very well,' Holmes relented, 'I'll guide you through it, but the reasoning is simple and it will embarrass you to not reach my conclusions on your own. Think about the nature of prostitution. Who are the players, and how is the game played?'

'Sexual favours are traded for money… or other goods in lieu?'

'And where does this occur?'

'Brothels, surely… perhaps hotels, and if you are correct, dingy alleyways in slums…'

_'If I am correct?_ This is going nowhere! Let me try a different tack. If you were in the market for gratification, would you shop close to home?'

Watson frowned in concentration as he set his mind to the task. It was not enough to answer the questions Holmes posed. He also had to try to fathom the detective's purpose behind those questions. Holmes waited with impatient expectation.

'…So, you're implying that the ginger docksman is not from Whitechapel, but his lady consort was? That doesn't make him any less of a witness! It just means she might be easier to find!'

'Exactly! Inquiries in Whitechapel tonight for the girl I described should prove more effective than searching all of London's dockyards tomorrow for some red-headed dock worker. Since that foolish Gregson has refused to hear my insights, I must now pursue my own inquiries.'

Another row between the inspector and his men erupted. Apparently word had arrived of Dr Langer's refusal to attend. Whether it was the late hour, the miserable weather, an aversion to the slums, or a combination of any of these reasons, it mattered not. Gregson was in a bind: either the corpse had to be left in situ until morning, or removed to the morgue without proper examination. Holmes grinned but Watson found no joy in the inspector's dilemma.

'Well, Holmes, if you are finished baiting the inspector, I have found someone I think you should meet.'

.oOOo.

Watson motioned for the lantern and led Holmes to his former location by the wall. Holmes raised the hood enough to illuminate the path before them. He started in surprise when his beam caught the figure of the young woman clinging to the alcove. His quick brain instantly recorded the details of her age, her cheap makeup, her hair askew, and her shoddy attire. He reached for her but she cringed and was about to scream. Holmes immediately backed away.

'She matches your description but she is traumatised,' Watson murmured.

'Yes, I see that. We need her to come with us. She's terrified of me. Watson, please try your luck, unless you think your bedside manner is too rusty.'

Watson ignored the jibe and stepped forth speaking in calm, concerned tones.

'Miss? It's me, again. Have you been hurt?' I'm a doctor. My friend and I want to help you.'

Slowly he reached for her hand. It was cold and it trembled as he held it loosely in his only slightly warmer hand. When she did not scream he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and implored her to speak to him. Ignoring Holmes' impatient snorting, Watson focused only on the girl. Eventually his kind words paid off and she turned to look at him. He smiled.

'There, Miss! It's all right. Nobody wants to harm you. What is your name?'

'Lilly… Lilly Sheppard.'

'Pleased to meet you, Lilly, now let us get you away from this horrible place.'

With those words, he released her hand and shrugged out of his overcoat. He placed it gently over her shoulders and bundled her in it; its length falling almost to her ankles. With Holmes lighting the way, the trio picked their way back to Sid and the carriage waiting for them in the High Street.


	4. The Professionals

Since revealing her name, the girl remained mute and stared out the little window, rocking herself gently as she shivered amongst the folds of Watson's overcoat. As for the doctor, he wrapped his shoulders in a lap robe that Sid provided, and watched the girl. Holmes sat opposite, oblivious to being just as cold and wet as the others. His fingers drummed the beat to a tune that only he could hear.

'Where are we going?' Watson asked after a while, hoping it was someplace warm and dry.

'I need to talk to Lestrade.'

'Inspector Lestrade? I thought you despised him.'

'No, Doctor. My contempt for him is a thin veneer which I use to my advantage.'

'So you don't think he is an insufferable idiot and an incompetent?'

'No, that is still true, yet I do not despise him for it. What I find most frustrating amongst the professionals is their lack of imagination, and it is a condition that both Gregson and Lestrade subscribe to.'

'Wouldn't the constraints of their positions force them to follow specific procedures? They are not as free to pursue lines of inquiry as you are. Their activities must stay strictly within the boundaries of the law.'

'My dear fellow! It was not lines of professional conduct that prevented Gregson from making use of your medical expertise tonight. It was his contempt for me and my successes. So, I am now going to teach him a lesson in humility.'

'By going to his rival, Inspector Lestrade,' Watson concluded.

'Precisely! While Gregson and Lestrade are the best of what Scotland Yard considers inspectors, their methods differ distinctly. For puzzles and riddles, Gregson is your man. He has the mental acumen and the patience to reason those types of problems. But place him under pressure, and as you have witnessed, he lashes out.

'Then there's Lestrade. What he lacks in the brain department, he more than makes up for it with tenacity and foresight. Had this been Lestrade's case, he would have swallowed his pride, however reluctantly, and let us assist him. He would not have let his constables verge on mutiny and the evidence would have been preserved. No, Watson, in many ways, Lestrade is the better man.'

'You are never going to tell him so, are you?'

'Heavens no! What a thought! The man flourishes under pressure, and in that way, he is more like you. I need his best game, and he will only rise to it when he sees me in an adversarial role.'

'And his rivalry with Gregson…?'

'…is to be encouraged at every turn! It's better for all of us, in the long run.'

For someone who claimed to have never read the words of Machiavelli, Watson mused, Sherlock Holmes certainly had a knack for applying his methods.

.oOOo.

For safety's sake, the carriage travelled slowly through the city streets. The wet cobblestones could be treacherous even when there was no threat of frost. Rain and fog diminished visibility to such an extent that even an experienced coachman like Sid feared losing his way. The carriage's occupants rode in silence. The girl remained in her strange trance-like state. Holmes checked his pocket watch and found it was after two o'clock. He cleared his mind in anticipation of his upcoming encounter and watched as Watson's head drooped and nodded, swaying with the coach's movement.

Eventually, Sid drew the carriage to a stop in a working class neighbourhood where neat rowhouses huddled together for protection against the misfortune of the greater city.

'Watson, we're here,' said Holmes as he nudged the dozing doctor back to reality.

Holmes stepped down and waited for Watson to assist Miss Sheppard from the carriage. All three of them proceeded up the steps to the door of one of the houses. Holmes pounded on the door until light could be seen flickering behind the curtains.

'Open the door, Lestrade!' Holmes shouted, and then cautiously added: 'You can put your gun away.'

The door opened a crack.

'Sherlock Holmes! What is the meaning…'

'All in good time, Inspector. Dr Watson and I have brought you a present. May we step in?'

Lestrade eyed the three people on his doorstep.

'You've brought me a prostitute? To my home? Are you deranged?'

The doctor stifled his laugh with a coughing fit, and immediately apologised.

'Let us in, before Watson develops pneumonia. Trust me, this will be worth your while.'

'It had bloody well better be,' Lestrade intoned as he acquiesced, opened the door, and stepped aside.

Lamps were turned up to reveal a narrow vestibule leading into a compact sitting room. Sodden coats and hats were left to overwhelm the spindly coat rack as the inspector ushered everyone into his home.

'This better be good, Holmes. Waking me and my family in the middle of the night...'

'Oh, I think you will find this of great interest! It's a chance to snatch Gregson's current case right out from under his nose.'

Lestrade's face brightened accompanied by an unpleasant grin. Watson stared as the inspector shifted gears from suspicion to hopeful anticipation. In light of Holmes' recent revelations, the doctor should not have been so surprised.

'Don't mind your wet clothes then. Please, everyone take a seat. Mr Holmes, would you be so kind as to stoke those coals? It will warm the room in no time. Shall I put the kettle on? Doctor, you wouldn't say no to a cuppa tea, would you?'

'No, not at all, but a swig of something stronger would be most welcome in the meantime.'

The sitting room had warmed a little by the time the tea was ready. Strong rum was offered and not refused. Dr Watson laced the girl's tea with the aromatic spirit and urged her to drink. Holmes drew the inspector aside and laid before him the situation of Gregson's case and the nature of his own evidence. At long last he arrived at the role of the young woman in their presence.

'This is Lilly Sheppard, and she witnessed the whole thing.'

'Come on, lass, tell us what you saw.'

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

So, we've reached the halfway point; what do you think so far?


	5. Eyewitness Account

'Easy Inspector. Don't rush her; she's had quite a fright.' Watson warned.

The girl, being a little waif of a thing, was feeling the warmth of the rum. It brought a flush to her otherwise pale and sickly countenance and she nodded her gratitude to the doctor when he again held the cup for her.

'Lilly, you're safe here. I know you have had a fright, but could you please tell Mr Lestrade and Mr Holmes what you saw this evening? Take whatever time you need.'

With Watson's hand on her arm in support, and aided by the rum which loosened her tongue, the girl's story finally came out. Her account came first in sporadic words, and then in a flood. She had indeed witnessed the brutal assault.

'I know them blokes what done it. Del Tarber, that old proz, she led this toff into the mews. Then Finchy, that's Danny Finch, coshed him good. Finchy's mate, some narf they call Howie, gave Del some money an' told her to bugger off.

'No big deal, right? Toff's own fault. He shoulda knowed better. Whitechapel ain't safe, unless you knows your way around. Deserved to lose his wallet,' she said, angrily, then gulped once, and once again.

'But he dint deserve what happened after. Finchy'd already gone through his pockets and was after the toff's ring with his knife, but the geezer is waking up and makes a fuss, so Howie gives him another bash. But his aim is bad, and he needs to bash him a few more times cuz he's squealing like a stuck pig. Now the toff aint moving no more, see? They drag him over and dump him on the rubbish heap. Arnie, what works in the pub, opens the door for a piss, finds the geezer and calls for the peelers, er, police.'

'You are not telling us the whole story, Lilly,' Holmes accused. 'When did you touch the body?'

'Who says I-' The girl went dangerously pale.

'-The tear in your sleeve and the bruise on your wrist. Did the victim reach for you when you tried to rob him? Is that what frightened you so?'

Lilly shook her head in disbelief.

'The geezer was dead! Had to be… with his head all smashed-like… and the blood! But he starts to twitch, see? And coughs a bit, so I think… maybe he's not a goner after all… maybe the boys just hurt him bad. So I go to him, but what I sees… there's no way… no way… and he grabs me! He won't let go! And he sounds like… like… And then I hear the door to The Stag and I knew I had to get away! Arnie, what works in the pub, he's drunk so he doesn't see me. Ha! He sobered up right quick though when he saw what happened to the toff.'

Tears sprang to her eyes despite her little laugh.

'Are you expecting us to believe that? What's to say you weren't in on from the start?'

'I believe her, Lestrade. She is not experienced enough to be in on such a daring plot. She is barely bold enough to approach a corpse to glean whatever the others may have missed! No, Inspector, your course now is to track down this Finchy and his friend, Howie.'

'What say you, Doctor? You found her. Does her story fit?' Lestrade enquired.

'It does have ring of truth about it, and it seems to satisfy Holmes' evidence. Lilly was certainly not faking her shock paralysis. Without it, she would have had plenty of time to get away. I'm inclined to believe her.'

'Indeed! A would-be thief at worst; certainly not a murderess!' Holmes concluded.

'Oh ho!' Lestrade brightened 'I think I know where to find Danny Finch. With a little luck I can make an arrest before the morning editions hit the street! Gregson will be fit to be tied!'

Watson caught Holmes' wolfish grin, but did not respond in kind.

.oOOo.

Leaving the comfort of his home behind, Lestrade led their little group back out into the night. The coachman, Sid, had taken shelter inside of his carriage. Holmes made a dash and opened the door for Lestrade who kept a grip on Lilly's arm. Watson, ever the straggler, brought up the rear. Holmes assisted the inspector and the girl, then turned to his friend.

'Where to next?' Watson inquired.

'It's Scotland Yard for me and the inspector. You are going home.'

'But the case…'

'Your tenacity is endearing, Doctor, but you become petulant when you're tired. Even now, you can hardly stand without swaying. It's back to Baker Street with you!'

'I am not petulant,' Watson pouted. 'I'm stamping my feet because they are frozen!'

'You also become argumentative when you are cold.'

'I do no such thing!'

Holmes grinned at Lestrade while the doctor glowered.

.oOOo.

Ramrod straight, Watson marched through the rain, up the steps to 221 Baker Street, and shut the door behind him with more force than was absolutely necessary.

'Oh, I daresay he did not like that!' Lestrade laughed. 'Although, I thought he was doing rather well.'

'Yes he was. What he lacks in observational acuity, he more than makes up with instinct. Nevertheless, I won't risk his interfering with what must come next.'

'Why ever not? A mild-mannered fellow like him wouldn't say boo to a goose!'

'It would be a great mistake to interpret Watson's good manners as timidity. I have sorely tried his good nature tonight, and I have my own reasons for removing him from this case.'

Lestrade was at a loss. Holmes cast a glance at Lilly whose exhaustion combined with the rum had succumbed to a light sleep beside him. He leaned forward and lowered his voice so only the inspector could hear.

'Miss Sheppard has to be detained in case you do not make an arrest. Once tonight's courage has worn off, she will flee and we'll never find her again.' Holmes leaned forward and confided. 'You need to remand her to the lock-up and I thought Dr Watson might object. That is why I sent him home. He can be bloody-minded, you know.'

'Over a gutter tart?'

'Society makes these distinctions; Dr Watson does not.'

'He won't last long in London, then.'

Holmes sat back in his seat but did not reply.


	6. An Arrest

**An Arrest**

Upon their arrival at Scotland Yard, Holmes discharged Sid with enough coin to cover his next day's wages. After such a long night, neither man nor horse would be fit for work in the morning.

In the bowels of the old building, Lestrade emphasised that Lilly Sheppard was a witness, not a suspect, and needed to be detained for her protection. The night matron led the tired and confused girl down the hall to the women's' holding cells, promising her a set of dry clothes and a safe, warm bed for the night.

The inspector made some inquiries as he rounded up three available constables. Inspector Gregson and his crew had not returned and Lestrade figured that his colleague and rival had opted to stay at the crime scene with the evidence. A fresh horse and carriage were drawn from the police livery and once again Holmes was bound for Whitechapel.

Lestrade's familiarity with the district was invaluable. After tracing their way through numerous anonymous passages, they stopped at one of the laneways and forced the door into a damp grotto of a cellar. The inspector's lantern light fell on one of the sleeping inhabitants and his men were quick to haul the bewildered man outside.

"Mr Holmes, this is Hugo, a friend of Danny Finch. He's going to tell us where his mate is, if he knows what's good for him.'

Before Hugo could reply, the constable holding him wrenched his arm almost to the point of dislocation. Another copper punched him hard in the face. Lestrade stepped in.

'Is Danny Finch down there?' he asked, referring to the cellar.

'Nah, Finchy sleeps high and dry tonight,' he gasped, gesturing to the upper storey of the building. Lestrade handcuffed him and left him in the custody of one of the constables.

The stairs to the upper garret were too rickety to allow for stealth. Instead, Holmes, Lestrade and two constables thundered up them and bashed in the dilapidated door. From under his thin blankets, a bleary-eyed Danny Finch raised his arms in surrender.

'Well, Finchy, you've finally gone too far. Small crimes lead to bigger crimes and now you've graduated to murder.' Lestrade growled.

'M..m..murder? No, please, Inspector... not me! Never!'

'Shut it, Finch! Your luck has run out. We have an eyewitness!'

Finchy squirmed and begged. It had not been his idea. Howie had planned it all, and Howie had struck all the blows, including the fatal one. Finchy pleaded that he did not even want to be there, and that he had not stolen anything. He was so frightened that he gave Lestrade the location where Howie would be staying the night.

All hopes of clemency were dashed when Holmes' search of Finchy's coat pockets revealed some coins and the bloody stump of a man's finger, complete with wedding band.

'Danny Finch, you'll swing for this,' Lestrade vowed, ordering his constables to take him away.

In the end, Howard Wells, sometimes known as Howie, after a wild chase, chose to risk the Thames rather than try his chances with Lestrade's constables. His body was recovered in the early morning light.

.oOOo.

Still damp from the night's dreadful weather, Gregson's shoes squeaked as he made the short but lonely walk from his Chief Inspector's office.

Chief Fennis had been very succinct. Gregson had failed on many levels. He had failed to solve the crime and he had failed to catch the murderers. He had failed to lead his men. The constables had complained about his methods and his conduct. London was changing so quickly, Scotland Yard must present a professional and unified front, he was told. Whitechapel was still a bed of unrest; a blight upon a shining Empire, and there was pressure to clean out that den once and for all. Failure here could not be tolerated.

To add insult to injury, the press had gotten wind of the murder and had reported that Lestrade had once again prevailed. If not for Lestrade, the case would surely been lost with the evidence destroyed. His superiors knew this, and by this time, the news would have spread throughout the lower ranks.

Only after secluding himself behind his office door did Gregson allow his broad shoulders to sag.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Only one more chapter to go!


	7. Aftermath

It was just before eight o'clock in the morning when Sherlock Holmes returned to his Baker Street flat. Although Watson was wearing a different suit, and had shaved, there was a distinctly unsettled air about him. He put down the morning paper.

'Who was the victim, then? The early edition had yet to identify him.'

'It is of little importance, but his name was Kerr, and he managed a textile mill. The odious circumstances of his death have brought disgrace to his wife and family. Worst of all, the crime turned out to have very little instructional merit. A simple mugging gone wrong, and a man paid for his commonplace infidelity.'

'Surely being bludgeoned to death is too steep a price to pay for indiscretion.'

'Of course, Doctor. But, even you have to admit, that if Mr Kerr had not been seeking his leisure in Whitechapel, none of this would have happened.'

Watson turned to address Holmes. He was still angry and his words needed to be said directly to the detective in a way that could not be misconstrued.

'I did not appreciate being dumped here and sent off to bed like a small child. I would have liked to accompany you and Lestrade to the conclusion of the case.'

'No doubt you would, but frankly Watson, you would have slowed us down. This was a game for abler men. Very few of my cases involve strenuous athleticism; therefore I urge you to develop deductive reasoning and learn to apply my methods. They will serve much better than whatever physical prowess you may hope to recover.'

Watson's eyes flashed in anger as he bit back a furious response. Only then did Holmes realise the unintended sting in the cruelty of his remark.

'Forgive me, my dear fellow. I am too blunt when I speak my mind. I never meant you any slight. Your assistance last night was invaluable. Without it, we may not have found Lilly Sheppard. Certainly neither Lestrade nor I would have been able to pry her account from her. She trusted you and she gave us the names of the perpetrators. That you were not included in the final chase is irrelevant.'

'What will happen to her now?'

'Who knows? We did not need her testimony after all and she was released home this morning.'

'Released? Wait, you had her detained! The girl was in shock, and you had her locked up in some dingy gaol!'

'She was perfectly safe-'

'-what happens when her friends and neighbours find out she helped the police? How safe will she be then?'

'She is no longer of any consequence. That you care is commendable, but in reality, there are hundreds of her ilk; perhaps thousands. Lilly Sheppard will disappear back into the morass of her slum to eke out a living as best she can until some inevitable misfortune comes her way.'

A chill that had nothing to do with the encroaching winter pervaded the sitting room. Although Watson continued to look out the window on the busy tableau of Baker Street, his thoughts were of the slums not five miles away. Drawn like a moth to a flame, and with few other options, he too had sought to make a new life for himself in London. Yet this was not the city of his youth when he was absorbed in his studies and his world revolved around the university. Had the despair and destitution been here all along?

'Watson, dwelling upon these affairs is futile, and in your case, detrimental to your health. Still, I suppose there is a chance she may escape and make a life for herself elsewhere. I have to say that the odds are very much against her. There are no happy endings to be found in Whitechapel, but if you chronicle this case, you are free to write one for her if you wish.'

.oOOo.

**Epilogue**

The novelty of Mr George Kerr's murder lasted only a few days with the press making the more of how the nature of his murder brought shame upon his family, then of Scotland Yard's successful apprehension of the criminals. A month later, Daniel Finch's trial and hanging was mentioned only as a line in the crime reports. In the interim, both Inspector Lestrade and Inspector Gregson were again passed over for promotion.

Although John Watson recorded these events in his journal, he never committed this story to print.

.oOOo.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Well, that is the end of this case, and of the story. I sure would appreciate some feedback concerning this one, especially if I am going to attempt other case fics. Thanks!


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